“No need to play stupid, Rourke. You may be a boxer, but it does not suit you.”
A grin twists onto my lips. “Neither does shit-talking somebody who could knock you and your boys out cold. I’d suggest not getting smart with the mouth.”
Rurik slams down the glass tumbler of vodka. His stony face vanishes for a rare flash of anger. His men pick up on it too, edging forward as if waiting on his command to attack.
“Last night my men came to collect her,” he says. “She belongs to the sovietnik. She is hisproperty. You interfered.”
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs and hands clasped as I hold his gaze and my grin only spreads. “I’ll make this real simple for you. You were on Irish turf. You were inmyfucking pub.Myfucking property. You or your boys do it again, I’ll make sure next time you leave in a body bag.”
“Then it seems it is not so simple. Because she is ours, and we will always collect.”
“Not on my fucking territory!”
“You’re mistaken if you think we care about such frivolous details.”
Heat warms my skin as my temper rises and the rage almost takes over. My fists have balled and the spike in adrenaline’s already come.
I could so easily lose my shit here and now. I could be the boneman I normally am, bold enough to fight Rurik Raguzin and his two enforcers in the middle of the club.
…or I could walk away and prepare for war like acommanderwould do.
A Clan Chief would never escalate this situation in the moment unless necessary. Unless he already had a plan and his men ready to go.
I shove myself out of the armchair, breathing raggedly, done with this conversation.
“Try it again,” I warn. “See what happens.”
Rurik merely stares silently as if amused.He’s reverted back to his elusive cold and composed mask. He picks up his glass tumbler and sips from it, watching me like I’m a form of entertainment.
I want to bash his fucking face in.
Instead I turn and storm out, hands clenched into fists and blood boiling in my veins.
That went about as well as expected.
It’s another hour before I make it to the Banshee, and by then the rage has cooled. I’m still angry, but sane enough to keep myself in check.
The pub looks better than I expected.
Tom and Jhene must’ve spent the whole day cleaning up the wreckage from last night. The broken bottles are gone. The overturned tables are upright again. Somebody’s even mopped the floor ’til it gleams as much as a pub floor can.
You’d never know three Bratva goons got their asses handed to them here less than twenty-four hours ago.
I spot Jhene immediately, weaving between tables with a tray of pints balanced on her palm. She’s changed clothes since this morning—matching me in jeans and a T-shirt—and her thick curls are pulled back from her face with a scrunchie.
I can tell she’s still tired by how slow she moves. The girl looks like she hasn’t even had a good meal lately.
Whenwasthe last time she ate?
I didn’t think to ask when she was at the studio.
Stubborn thing probably would’ve refused to fucking tell me.
We catch each other’s eye from across the pub. Her expression sours as if she’s bitten into a lemon.
Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.
I’m busy glaring at her when a flash of ginger hair catches my attention.
